Winter in Thrush Green Read online

  10. Albert Piggott is Wooed

  NELLY TILLING kept her word. She paid three visits to Mr Piggott's cottage, carrying with her each rime a stout rush basket bearing a scrubbing brush, house flannel, and a large packet of detergent whose magic properties had been dinned into her by television advertisements. Nelly was a firm believer in the educational value of television, and took everything she saw as gospel truth.

  Her set was an old one, given her by the landlord of 'The Drovers' Arms,' not far from her own cottage, where she worked two mornings a week scrubbing out the bar. Kindly Ted and Bessie Allen, for whom young Molly Piggott had once worked, felt very sorry for Nelly Tilling when her husband died and had decided that their old television set would be just the thing to cheer her lonely evenings.

  They were quite right. Nelly was an avid watcher and took great delight in telling her employers all about the programmes–which they had seen for themselves the night before–in meticulous detail.

  One morning, soon after the meeting about the memorial, Nelly made her way round to Mr Piggott's back door, her basket on her arm and her spirits raised at the thought of the work before her. Nelly was a fighter. She chased dirt as she chased and routed any weakness for strong drink or dubious entertainment. Brought up by militant evangelistic parents Nelly continued, in ripe middle age, to practise those precepts learnt in her youth. She knew where to draw the line, and even switched off the television set if any of the dancers appeared too lightly clad for her sense of propriety.

  She intended this morning to attack Albert Piggott's kitchen. This task would have daunted many a woman, but Nelly, armed with the magic detergent and the stout scrubbing brush, really looked forward to the job.

  She found Albert Piggott gazing intently into a small triangle of looking-glass propped on the window-sill. He greeted her glumly.

  'Got summat in me eye,' he said.

  'Here, let's see,' said the fat widow, putting her heavy basket on the floor and advancing upon him. Albert turned a watery pale blue eye in her direction.

  'That reminds me,' said the lady, pulling her handkerchief from her coat pocket and screwing the corner into a workmanlike radish, 'I've brought a cod's head for your cat.'

  Mr Piggott grunted, by way of thanking her, and looked with alarm at the handkerchief.

  'It'll come out on its own, I don't doubt—' he began. But his protests were of no avail. He found the back of his head held firmly in Nelly Tilling's left hand while she swiped shrewdly at his eye with the formidable weapon in her right one.

  Nelly Tilling had plenty of experience in dealing with refractory children. She had brought up three of her own, all scrubbed and polished like bright apples, and had the knack of grabbing a reluctant child behind the neck and whisking a soapy flannel round its face and ears before it had time to protest. Although all her children were now grown up, Nelly's hand had not lost its cunning. Within two seconds Albert was released, and the eye was freed of its foreign body.

  'Well!' gasped Albert, flabbergasted but impressed. That was a smart piece of work, I will say!'

  ' 'Twas nothing,' said the widow, looking gratified nevertheless. 'While you're over the church, Albert, I thought I'd set this room to rights today, and maybe we could share a bacon pie, like I promised. I've got it in my basket here. I'll just hot it up for midday.'

  Albert's eye brightened. For all her running him round, which he was inclined to resent, a bacon pie was a bacon pie, particularly when such a delicacy was virtually unobtainable to a man living alone.

  I'll pick a bit of winter green,' said Albert, with unaccustomed vigour, 'it's doing well this year. Give us the enamel bowl, my girl, and I'll go down the garden.'

  He departed, whistling through his broken teeth, and Nelly set about heating some water for her campaign, well pleased with the way things were going.

  Two hours later Nelly sat, blown but triumphant, on the kitchen chair and surveyed her handiwork.

  She had cause for pride. A bright fire glowed behind gleaming bars, and the bacon pie was already in the oven beside it and beginning to smell most savoury. The thin little cat, her repast spread on a newspaper in the corner, dug her sharp white teeth into the cod's head, closing her eyes in bliss the while.

  The floor, the walls and the wooden table had all been lustily scrubbed. Albert's dingy sink had been scoured to its original yellow colour, and the window above it gleamed and winked with unaccustomed cleanliness.

  Taking a steady look at it, thought Nelly to herself, easing off her shoes for greater comfort, it wasn't such a bad little house, and certainly very much more conveniently placed for shopping than her own cottage at Lulling Woods.

  Two rooms up and two rooms down would be just a nice size for Albert and herself, and her own furniture would look very handsome in these surroundings. The few poor sticks that Albert had collected over the years were fit for nothing but firewood.

  She allowed her mind to dwell for a minute on her old schoolfellow in the role of husband. True, he was no oil painting, but she had long passed the age of needing good looks about her, and anyway, she admitted to herself with disarming frankness, her own beauty had long since gone.

  And, of course, he was a miserable worm. But, Nelly pointed out to herself, he had some justification for it. The drink had something to do with it, no doubt, but lack of a decent woman in his house was the real cause of the trouble. She cast an appraising eye over the clean kitchen and listened to the music of the sizzling pie. With a cheerful place like this to come home to, thought Nelly, 'The Two Pheasants' would lose its appeal. And if by any chance it didn't, then Nelly Tilling would put her foot down–for hadn't she seen, with her own eyes, young Albert Piggott in a Norfolk jacket much too small for him, signing the pledge all those years ago?

  The advantages of the marriage were solid ones. Albert earned a steady wage, was a good gardener and could afford to keep a wife in reasonable comfort. There would be no need for her to go out to work. 'The Drovers' Arms' was a pleasant enough place to scrub out, but Nelly disliked seeing people drinking. She would not be sorry to give up the job there, despite Bessie and Ted's goodwill towards her.

  At Thrush Green she would be able to pick and choose her employers. Miss Ruth or Miss Joan, as she still thought of Mrs Lovell and Mrs Young, could probably do with a hand. She remembered the great flagged kitchen floor at the Bassetts' house and her heart warmed.

  Or better still, there was the village school practically next door! The thought of those yards of bare floorboards, pounded day in and day out by scores of muddy boots, fairly crying out for a bucket of hot suds and a good brush, filled Nelly's heart with joy. There was a cloakroom too, if she remembered rightly, with a nice rosy brick floor that really paid for doing. And there was something about a large tortoise stove, freshly done with first-class blacklead and plenty of elbow-grease, that gladdened your eyes. She had heard that Miss Watson wasn't best pleased with the present cleaner. A word dropped in the right ear, Nelly told herself, might bring her the job if she decided to earn an honest penny at Thrush Green.

  She heard the sound of Albert's footsteps approaching, heaved her bulk from the chair, and opened the oven door. A glorious fragrance filled the room. On top of the hob the winter greens bubbled deliriously. The mingled scents greeted Albert as he opened the back door.

  'Cor!' breathed Mr Piggott with awe, 'that smells wholly good, Nell.'

  His face bore an expression of holiness and rapture which his habitual place of worship never saw. Albert was touched to his very marrow.

  Nelly was not slow to follow up this advantage.

  'Sit you down, Albert,' she said warmly, 'in a real clean kitchen at last, with a real hot meal to cat.

  She withdrew the fragrant dish from the oven, and put it, still sizzling, before the bedazzled sexton.

  'There!' breathed the widow proudly, setting about her wooing with a bacon pie.

  Albert Piggott's cottage was not the only house in Thrush Green
where thoughts of matrimony disturbed the air.

  On the same day, across the green, Ella Bembridge mused upon the married state. She was alone in the house, her work materials spread out upon the kitchen table. She was busy hand printing a length of material for Dotty Harmer's new summer skirt, and for once the dishes of paint, the jar of brushes and the chunky wood block failed to please her.

  Dimity was out with Harold Shoosmith in the large Daimler. She would be more than adequately chaperoned, for about six cars were with them. The Lulling Field Club was off to see a Saxon church, much prized by antiquarians, resembling a stone bees' skep, and smelling strongly of damp. Ella had decided to forgo this pleasure and to get on with one or two orders while the kitchen was unoccupied.

  But her heart was not in the work. The possibility of either of them marrying had been thought of when the two friends had joined forces many years before. As they grew older there was, naturally, less likelihood of marriage, and their lives had been filled with many interests and a cheerful affection for each other which most successfully kept the bogey of loneliness away.

  All these thoughts buzzed about Ella's head as she thumped her wood block steadily down the length of cloth before her. The kitchen seemed stuffy, the pattern second-rate and the printing patchy. At last, unable to bear it any longer, Ella downed tools, grabbed her coat from the back of the kitchen door, and marched out for air.

  It was one of those still, quiet days of winter, when everything seems to be waiting. No breeze disturbed the plumes of smoke from Thrush Green's chimneys. The trees stood bare and motionless. On the hedges small drops of moisture hung; no breath of wind disturbed them, no beam of sunlight lit them to life. The sky was low and of uniform greyness.

  'Might as well be in a canvas tent,' thought Ella gloomily, turning her steps towards the lane to Nod and Nidden.

  About half a mile along the quiet road she came to a low wall of Cotswold stone, built by a craftsman years before, stone upon stone, so skilfully, that although no mortar had touched it the dry stones had weathered many a gale and blizzard and remained untouched.

  Ella leant upon its comforting roughness, took out the battered tobacco tin which accompanied her everywhere, and began to roll herself one of the shaggy vile-smelling cigarettes for which she was noted. Lighting one untidy end she drew in a refreshing breath of strong smoke. Before her, in December haze, stretched mile upon mile of Cotswold country, ploughed fields, grazing pastures, distant smoky woodland, valleys and hills. Here, in this quiet lovely place, Ella knew that she must put her thoughts in order.

  Better to face it, she told herself, there was nothing on earth to keep Dimity from marrying if she were asked. What sort of a life did Dim have, when you looked at it squarely? She was bullied and shouted at, did most of the work and got no thanks for it.

  'It's a wonder she's stuck it as long as she has,' said Ella aloud to a fat blackbird who had come to see what was going on. With a squawk, her companion fled, and Ella, in her present state of self-chastisement, did not blame him.

  And there was no doubt about it that Harold Shoosmith seemed fond of her. He had taken to calling in several times a week and Dimity was unashamedly delighted to see him. He would probably make a very good husband, thought Ella magnanimously. Poor state though matrimony was, it obviously appealed to quite a number of people.

  She supposed that they would live at the corner house. Suddenly, Ella found the whole idea peculiarly painful, and tossed her cigarette irritably into a tuft of wet grass. Could it be jealousy, she asked herself? Any man would say so, many women would not. Ella tried to look at the matter soberly again.

  Quite honestly, Ella decided, it was not jealousy that made her feelings so acute. She had no desire for marriage herself, though she knew that Dimity's more gentle nature would flower in the married state. Her own mental life was vigorous and creative and afforded her greater satisfaction with every year that passed. Marriage for Ella would be a distraction. She was too selfish not to resent any interruption in her own way of life. For Dimity's happiness she rejoiced. It was just, thought Ella with a wince of pain, that she would miss Dim so much–the shared jokes, the companionship in the little cottage, the modest expeditions and the fun of discussing things with her.

  Life was going to be very different with Dim across the green. Could the cottage be endured without her company, Ella wondered? Or would it be best to uproot herself and go elsewhere? It might be fairest to both of them, she decided. Whatever the future held she must let Dimity have her way. She must not be selfish and tyrannical–for too long Dimity had suffered her own over-bearing ways. If this should prove to be Dim's chance of happiness, then, Ella decided, she should take it and she herself would do all in her power to promote it.

  Ella took a deep breath of damp Cotswold air, and having cleared her mind, felt a great deal better.

  She gave the stone wall a friendly clout with her massive hand, and turned her face towards Thrush Green again.

  But still her heart was heavy.

  11. Christmas Preparations

  THE little town of Lulling was beginning to deck itself in its Christmas finery. In the market square a tall Christmas tree towered, its dark branches threaded with electric lights. At night it twinkled with red, blue, yellow and orange pinpoints of colour and gladdened the hearts of all the children.

  The shop windows sported snow scenes, Christmas bells, paper chains and reindeer. The window of the local electricity showroom had a life-size tableau of a family at Christmas dinner, which was much admired. Wax figures, with somewhat yellow and jaundiced complexions, sat smiling glassily at a varnished papier mache turkey, their forks upraised in happy anticipation. Upon their straw-like hair were perched paper hats of puce and lime green, and paper napkins, ablaze with holly sprigs, were tucked into their collars. The fact that they were flanked closely by a washing machine, a spin dryer and a refrigerator did not appear to disturb them, nor did the clutter of hair dryers, torches, heaters, bedwarmers and toasters, beneath the dining-room table, labelled ACCEPTABLE XMAS GIFTS.

  The rival firms of Beecher and Thatcher which faced each other across Lulling' High Street had used countless yards of cotton wool for their snowy scenes. Some held that Beecher's 'Palace of the Ice Queen' outdid Thatcher's tableau from Dickens's Christmas Carol, but the more critical and carping among Lulling' inhabitants deemed the Ice Queen's diaphanous garments indecent and 'anyway not Christmassy.' Both firms had elected to have Father Christmas installed complete with a gigantic pile of parcels wrapped in pink or blue tissue paper for their young customers. A great deal of explanation went on about this strange dual personality of Father Christmas, and exasperated mothers told each other privately just what they thought of Beecher and Thatcher for being so pig-headed. The psychological impact upon their young did not appear to have dire consequences. Country children are fairly equable and the pleasure of having two presents far outweighed the shock of meeting Father Christmas twice on the same day–once in the newly-garnished broom cupboard under Thatcher's main staircase, and next in the upstairs corset-fitting room, suitably draped with red curtaining material, at Beecher's establishment.

  With only a fortnight to go before Christmas Day Lulling people were beginning to bestir themselves about their shopping. London might start preparing for the festival at the end of October; Lulling refused to be hustled. October and November had jobs of their own in plenty. December, and the latter part at that, was the proper time to think of Christmas, and the idea of buying cards and presents before then was just plain silly.

  'Who wants to think of Christmas when there's the autumn digging to do?' said one practically.

  'Takes all the gilt off the gingerbread to have Christmas thrown down your throat before December,' agreed another.

  But now all the good folk were ready for it, and the shops did a brisk trade. Baskets bulged, and harassed matrons struggled along the crowded main street bearing awkward objects like tricycles and pairs of
stilts, flimsily wrapped in flapping paper. Children kept up a shrill piping for the tawdry knick-knacks which caught their eye, and fathers gazed speculatively at train sets and wondered if their two-year-old sons and daughters would be a good excuse to buy one.

  At the corner of the market square stood Puddocks', the stationers, and here, one windy afternoon, Ella Bembridge was engaged in choosing Christmas cards.

  Normally, Ella designed her own Christmas card. It was usually a wood cut or a lino cut, executed with her habitual vigour and very much appreciated by her friends. But somehow, this year, Ella had not done one. So many things had pressed upon her time. There were far more visits these days, both from the rector and from his friend Harold Shoosmith, and the vague unhappiness which hung over her at the thought of change had affected Ella more than she realised. Today, in Puddocks', reduced to turning over their mounds of insipid cards, Ella felt even more depressed.

  But, depressed as she was, she set about her appointed task with energy. She made directly towards the section marked 'Cards 6d., 9d., and 1s.' and began a swift process of elimination. Ballet dancers, ponies, dogs, anyone in a crinoline or a beaver hat, were out. So were contrived scenes of an open Bible before a stained-glass window flanked with a Christmas rose or a candle. It was amazing how little was left after this ruthless pruning. Ella, coming up for air, looked at the throng around her to see how others were faring.

  She envied the stout woman at her elbow who picked up all the cards embellished with sparkling stuff and read the verses intently. She had plenty of choice. She admired the way in which a tall thin man selected black and white line drawings of Ely Cathedral, Tower Bridge and Bath Abbey with extreme rapidity. She watched, with bitter respect, a large female who forced her way to the desk and demanded the ten dozen printed Christmas cards ordered on August 22nd, and promised faithfully for early December. Here was efficiency, thought Ella, returning to her rummaging.